ConneXions
by Titaniafae
Summary: In an alternate universe, will the course of events for the 'Austentatious' X-men run smoothly?
1. Part One

**ConneXions**  
_Part One_

> _Author's Note: This is what happens when you read Vanity Fair and Jane Austen at the same time as X-men fanfics. Don't do it. Save yourselves. Oh yes, and my agonising over Marie's surname was cleverly solved by someone's continued typos. Thank you, whoever the culprit was. :-)_

When gossip wound its wicked way through London society, its victims never resided in Greymalkin House. Scandal never touched the occupants of this elegant townhouse. Anyone who was anyone in London agreed that Mr Scott Summers and his lovely wife Jean were the height of respectability. Nothing risque, nothing ambiguous, but everything charming and lovely. He was the epitome of a gentleman, and she the perfect gentleman's lady. Just witness how she doted upon and cared for her uncle, Sir Charles Xavier. He was himself a pillar, a model, a shining example of the knighthood. Sadly age was advancing upon him, however, and he depended greatly on his niece and her husband. None doubted he was excellently taken care of. With two such excellent companions, his old age was an almost enviable state. 

Their house was immaculate, their reputation impeccable, and their company highly desirable. It would be easy to suspect in a cynical mind that it was for this reason alone that Mrs Elizabeth Rouge had written to her old friend. Jean Summers, however, was entirely lacking this frame of mind, and found the correspondance as delightful as her innocence could render it. 

"Who?" Scott asked, looking up puzzled from his newspaper with teacup in hand. 

"Lizzy Rouge, our friend from Brighton years ago. You remember, dear. She was married to that French banker, Mr Rouge. They live in Bath now." 

"Oh yes." Mystery solved, he returned to the Times. "They had a daughter, didn't they?" 

"Marie," Jean provided, continuing to read the letter. "That appears to be what she is writing me about. Oh, can Marie be seventeen already? How the time has passed. And she is out, of course. Just this year." She looked up, but her husband showed no interest in anything other than his paper or his tea, so she continued to read in silence, returning to the beginning of the letter. 

'My dearest Jean,' the letter began, 'It seems scarcely yesterday that I was sitting down to begin a Christmas epistle to you, but how many weeks have passed. I was gladdened to hear that you and your husband continue in good health. We here in Bath are likewise well in body and mind. Pierre's nerves have not troubled him excessively this year, and I believe the local airs and waters are doing him a great deal of good. He is certainly much improved since this time last year. 

'It is for a particular purpose that I set pen to paper today, however. Much as I would like to linger upon pleasantries, I have some small matter of business to relate. You may, I hope, remember our daughter, Marie. She is a great help to me and a constant joy to her father. Being now seventeen, we considered it high time she was out in society. As you are aware, however, we live very quietly here, despite the gaiety of the town all around us. Marie has also, in passing, expressed a desire to see the splendour of a London Season. She would not for anything press the issue, for she is the best girl in the world, but her father and I would dearly like to indulge her in this whim. Needless to say, Pierre's nerves would not stand the strain of London, especially in the Season. And even should that not stand in our way, I fear that we, with our small circle and plain tastes, would not provide the best of introductions to London society. 

'So it is that I humbly submit a suggestion to your good self; that Marie should stay in London with you, and you provide her introduction to the Season. Your gracious assistance in this matter would be so gratefully received by both my husband and myself as to transcend all mortal boundaries. As for Marie, you will be helping her dream come true. 

'Yours most sincerely, Lizzy Rouge. 

'PS: Please remember me fondly to your dear uncle.' 

"Well, of course she must come," Jean declared, setting down the letter by her breakfast plate. 

"Who?" Scott repeated, finally folding his newspaper. 

"Marie Rouge, my dear. Lizzy's daughter. Come here, and stay, for the Season. Oh yes, it will be delightful. She must go to the Richmond's ball, of course. And I am sure I could get her an invitation to Lady Musgrave's luncheon. We should procure a box at the opera as well, Scott." 

Mr Summers raised an eyebrow. "You are surely not planning to make us all attend these ghastly events." 

Jean smiled fondly at her husband. "I know you too well, husband. I know you only pretend to dislike society. Secretly you are as fond of those ghastly events as any other young peacock." 

The dining room doors opened, cutting short Scott's stout denial of any such affections. Jean stood, draping her napkin across her empty plate, and went to greet her uncle. He was pushed in his bath chair by his nurse, as he usually was these days. Age had not been kind to his body, though his mind remained as sharp as ever, and his eyes as clear. 

Jean kissed his bald head in greeting. "Good morning, Charles," she said brightly. "I have wonderful news. There will be an addition to our household within two months." 

They resettled at the table and Charles looked to his niece. "Indeed, my dear? Whose company can we expect?" 

"The daughter of our dear friend, Elizabeth Rouge. Do you remember her?" 

Charles nodded. "The wife of that Frenchman - uncommonly good sense for one of his race, you could almost forgive him his nationality. The daughter was a pretty little button, I recall." 

Jean smiled. "That pretty little button is now seventeen, Charles, and she has come out into society. Her mother has applied to us to introduce her to the London Season, and I can think of nothing more delightful." 

"And I of nothing more tedious," Scott interjected, but there was a smile on his face echoed in Charles' chuckle. 

"Well, my dear, the presence of pretty young women is always amenable to a man of my age. She will provide us with an excellent opportunity to attend a great many functions this Season." A sly smile towards Scott, who refused to rise to the bait, instead returning to his newspaper. "Write to your friend this very day, Jean." 

"I believe I will." 

And so, of course, she did. She wrote a reply similarly full of pleasantries to the French banker and his very dear wife. She wrote that they would be more than pleased to display for Marie the wonders of London during the Season. That she should come as soon as possible, for they were eagerly awaiting her arrival. 

Yes, all too easy to cynically imagine that there must have been other acquaintances in the city who could be applied to, closer friends or even relatives. That perhaps Pierre's nerves were not quite so bad at all, or that it was unthinkable that a wealthy family in Bath could live so very quietly. But such allusions of deception have no place in a house where everything is moral and just. We shall consider them no more. 

Let us continue, instead, to a date a month after the exchange of correspondance, and to a place where a slightly nervous but very excited young lady is entering a carriage. Marie Rouge, dressed in a brand new travelling costume, folded her hands in a very ladylike manner in her lap, and tried to calm herself, despite her mother's frantic last-minute repetitions to mind her manners, be on her best behaviour, and remember that this was a favour the Summers' need not have granted. Things she had heard a dozen times previously and was more than aware of. 

When Lizzy Rouge - for it was indeed none other - launched again upon the details of Marie's journey, the girl could hold herself no longer, and interrupted. "Yes, Mother, I know. In our coach to the inn at the crossroads and thence to the Post. Through Mosley, and Wentworth, and Charleton. It will take a goodly time to reach London. Joseph will accompany me." She looked up to the male servant sitting across from her - a pleasant man of middle years - and smiled. "He will keep me safe. Who knows what sorts of ruffians ride the Post these days." They were her mothers words verbatim, and that good lady burst into tears at hearing them. 

"My dear child, my only girl!" she cried, and pulled her daughter half out of the carriage again to embrace her one more time. 

But in due course, though not with any substantial diminishing of the flood, the carriage drew away from the house of the Rouge family, with the father standing stern on the steps, and the mother who would have been waving her handkerchief, was it not engaged in its rightful employment. 

Marie settled back into her seat, trying once again to calm herself. A London Season. Something she had scarcely dared to dream would be granted to her. Her stomach was all a roil of tumultuous emotions. She was nervous and excited, scared and thrilled. She hardly remembered London from childhood visits, and was sure that in the Season, it must transform into a veritable fairyland. She would go to balls. But would her dresses be good enough? No, surely not, she would be laughed at. Oh, how miserable. Better not to go at all. 

But Mrs Summers would help her. Her mother was full of the praises of Mrs Summers. She was good, proper, elegant and accomplished. With her help, Marie could become the proper London lady, and have a dozen suitors at her feet. 

Marie knew that was what her mother hoped for in sending her to London. A good husband, a gentleman certainly, a nobleman... something fervently wished for. Her daughter was pretty, and quite clever, and talented at the piano and her languages, if not quite so artistically gifted as a true young lady should be. Why should she not catch herself a good husband? 

With a sigh, Marie acknowledge that she knew the reason why. She had found it, barely a month ago, in the form of a young man named David Randall. A gentleman he, son of a Knight, handsome and dashing as any young buck in Bath. He would make a special effort to walk with her, and to sit next to her at recitals, and he even gave her a gift once, a small book of poetry. But that was before he had discovered who her father was. A banker. His regard had vanished, evaporated. He nodded to her coldly in the streets, as she hurried by with tears burning unshed behind her eyes. 

She was not a gentleman's daughter. 

She sat up a little straighter in her seat. Well damn David. She knew her father would be shocked to hear her use such words, even in the silence of her own mind. Her mother would faint. But it was how she felt. Damn them all. Things would be different in London. She would be everything charming and gay and lively and she would entrance all the young men so much that they would not care if her father was a Russian peasant. She would catch herself a husband to make David Randall regret his arrogance. 

She would. Oh please God, let it be so. 

**End Part One**


	2. Part Two

**ConneXions**  
_Part Two_

It was the cessation of the rocking movement of the carriage that woke Marie. She pushed herself up straighter on the carriage seat, and looked with wide eyes over to Joseph, the only other passenger in the Post carriage with her. They had had the company of other travellers on the earlier legs of the journey, but the last - an elderly married couple - had disembarked at Wentworth after giving Marie many good wishes for her first London Season. 

The carriage had stopped completely now. "What is happening?" Marie asked quietly, her voice a little shrill. 

There were harsh voices outside, the protestations of the driver from his box, and a voice demanding: "Do you want to die, man?" 

Her eyes widened even further, and in her head she began a fervent, if simple prayer; no, please God, no, please God, no. 

When the door to the carriage was wrenched open she shrieked, shrinking back into the corner, clutching her hands to her chest. He was waving a pistol, his blonde hair wild, his face dirty. He looked like a madman. Marie felt her heart beat a terrified rhythm, and her head felt light. No, no she was not going to faint! 

Then, through the beating of her blood in her ears, she heard it. Hooves, approaching on the road. The man in the doorway looked around, and Joseph leapt on him, the pair of them crashing out of the carriage. There came the sounds of shots being fired. Once, twice. 

Horrified, overcome, Marie gave up the fight and sank into blissful darkness. 

* * * * *

She awoke with dappled sunlight on her face, staring up into a blue sky through leaves rippling on the gentle wind. Then the sky was blocked out by the familiar face of Joseph, looking down at her with concern. "Miss, you're awake!" 

She sat up, with the help of his hand. "Joseph, why am I lying in the grass by the side of the road?" 

"The Captain said it would be best for you to get out of the stuffy carriage." A shadow fell over her, and Joseph looked up. "Captain, she has come to." 

Marie looked up as well, following his gaze. Standing just behind her was a man. Though not great of stature, he seemed formidable, the perception only enhanced by his bearing. She looked up to his face, but the sun was behind his head, and she could make out nothing but hair, dark and almost as wild as the ruffian's had been. "So I see," a low, gruff voice said. "Is she well enough to continue her journey?" 

Marie stood without the aid of Joseph's hand, fuelled by anger. Speaking as if she were not there... "I am perfectly well, sir..." and she trailed off, her intended demands of name and an explanation for his presence shrivelling on her tongue as she saw behind him, protruding from behind a tree, a pair of booted feet. She knew, they were the feet of the ruffian, and he was dead. 

The blood drained from her face, and Joseph leapt to his feet to grasp her arm. "Miss, you are still unwell, please sit." 

The stranger merely looked at her in silence. She could see his face now, a stern face, a slightly rough and tired face. Brown eyes neither soft nor sparkling. There was an intensity about him, though, that was somehow compelling. He took her hand, bowed over it. "Pardon, Madam. I am Captain Logan, of the ---th regiment. I happened to chance upon your carriage here, beset as it was." 

Beset no longer, as those boots bore witness. Marie tore her gaze away from them, and turned to Captain Logan. "Then I must thank you, sir, for coming to our aid. You are a true gentleman. I am Miss Marie Rouge, and this is Joseph." 

He straightened, releasing her hand. "No thanks are necessary, Miss Rouge. I did what was required." From the passivity of his countenance, it did not seem he was suffering under any great burden of guilt for his actions. But then again, she reasoned, why should he? The men were criminals, riff-raff. They would have been transported for what they had tried to do. Captain Logan looked to the sun, high overhead now. "The day is passing, Miss Rouge. You must continue your journey if you are to make London by tonight." 

She accepted his hand and he led her the few steps to the carriage, Joseph trailing behind. As she stepped up into the carriage, she was suddenly overwhelmed by how close it seemed inside. So small and confined. She paused on the step, breathing heavily. 

"Don't be afraid," Captain Logan said quietly, as if he understood everything that was going through her mind. "You will be quite safe, Miss Rouge. I will ride behind the carriage. No further harm will befall you." 

Relief flooded Marie, and she smiled down at him warmly. She climbed the last two steps into the carriage, and when his hand released hers, it seemed to her she could still feel his fingers. She folded her hands into her lap and stared at them as Joseph climbed up into the carriage and took his seat. She heard the driver call to Captain Logan, thanking him, and his response was merely a thunder-low rumble. 

The carriage began to move again, and she restrained herself from looking out the window. How unladylike. Of course he would be following; he had given his word. 

But before they had travelled half a mile, she could hold it no longer, and leant over to look out the window, clamping a hand on her head to prevent her bonnet escaping. The sight of him, mounted on a large black horse, following the coach, filled her with satisfaction. 

* * * * *

"My dear child! We were worried; you are so late." Jean enveloped the girl in a hug, an intimacy born of the worry she had expressed. "We feared your coach overturned, or robbers, or all manner of terrible things." 

"Your guesses were not so far from the mark." It was Captain Logan who spoke, who had handed her down from the carriage before she had been swept up by Mrs Summers, who now stood behind her. He bowed as Jean turned to him. "Captain Logan, Madam. At your service." 

"Whatever do you mean?" She turned to Marie. "What does he mean? Oh my child, you were not -?" 

"The coach was set upon by bandits," Marie said, much more calmly than she would have thought herself capable of being. "Heaven knows how badly it may have gone for us, were it not for the timely intervention of Captain Logan." She smiled his way, but he was looking to Mrs Summers, not to her. 

Scott stepped up beside his wife, reached out his hand to Logan. "Then by God, sir, I thank you most sincerely. And am most humbly at your service. Scott Summers, and this is my wife Jean." 

Jean curtseyed, dropping her eyes. "Won't you come in and have some tea? It is the least we can do, though we cannot hope to repay the debt we owe you." 

Marie almost held her breath, half-fearing he would refuse, and vanish from her life. But he did not, rather bowed again, and said he would be honoured. 

Scott nodded, and offered his arm to his wife, who took it instantly. "Then let us go inside, and talk no more in the street, but rather in comfort." He led the way inside as Captain Logan offered his arm to Marie, who felt quite elated as she took it. 

The tea was, of course, prompt and elegant, and introductions were made all round, between Sir Charles, and Captain Logan, and little Miss Marie Rouge, who the old man declared twice as pretty as the last time he had seen her. They settled, and the story of the coach was not, as may have been expected, dwelt upon. This was, we must remember, one of the most respectable drawing rooms in London, where such matters as robbers and shootings were not even considered, let alone discussed. 

"So, Captain Logan," Sir Charles began from his bath chair, "your regiment has been transferred to London, I seem to recall." 

Logan nodded, stiffly and formally. "Yes sir, that is so. Our Colonel seems to believe the society will be of benefit to us." 

"You do not agree?" Scott asked mildly. 

Marie thought it had been blatantly obvious from the Captain's tone that he did not. "Balls and opera will avail us little, should the Corsican decide upon action," he said. 

"Quite so," Charles agreed. 

Jean set down her teacup. "Come, gentlemen. The conversation has taken a decidedly militaristic air I find quite unwholesome. Leave Napoleon on the doorstep. He is not invited into my drawing room." She smiled to her husband, before turning to the Captain. "Now that you are in London, however inappropriately you believed the quartering, I do hope you will be attending some of those balls and operas. If for no other reason than that we may continue our acquaintance." 

"I believe all the officers have received an invitation to a ball given by the Lord and Lady Richmond," Logan noted. "I have no doubt we will all be attending; it has been a goodly period since our last chance at society. After that, I am not certain. I... am not overly interested in the overwhelming number of engagements so many men enter into." 

"Another society-shy gentleman! London is full of them." Laughing a little, Jean looked fondly to her husband, who smiled politely in response. "But we too will be attending the Richmond's ball. It is the real beginning of the Season, and we would not miss it. We will certainly see you there." 

Marie smiled broadly, hiding it in her teacup. A ball, and her Prince, her own saviour, there. She watched him across the room, a trifle uneasy, she thought, with his fragile cup and saucer. They were too small, too insignificant for him, she decided. He was vital. She knew he must be a magnificent soldier. She was just sure of it. 

The conversation flowed on, until after half an hour, Captain Logan stood, taking his leave on the need to reach his own lodgings before dinner. He was seen out by the entire party, who stood in the hall a moment after his departure. 

"He is a straightforward man," Scott noted. "Perhaps a little too blunt." 

"A man of action," Charles agreed. 

"But a gentleman, nevertheless," Jean concluded. 

Marie said nothing, but smiled and dreamed, just a little. 

* * * * *

Jean sat before her mirror, brushing her hair before bed and thinking about the day. How dramatic Marie's arrival had been, and bringing with it Captain Logan. Jean had noticed the way Marie looked at him, and she wondered if there would be trouble there. He was respectable, to be sure, as an officer. He was older, steadier, perhaps just what a young girl needed in a husband. But his family, his fortune; nothing was known of these things. His suitability was most certainly in question. She could see what interested Marie, though. There was an intensity about him, a vitality that defied the constraints of her drawing room. That touch of wildness... 

The rasp of the brush through her hair slowed, stopped. A quiet knock sounded on the door, and she blinked, resuming brushing at her usual pace. "Yes?" she called. 

The door opened a little to admit her husband, sliding in, just another shadow in the others cast by the candle by her mirror. She smiled and lay down the brush as he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He met her eyes in the mirror, his eyes lit with pleasure and mischief and love as he leaned over to blow out that single flame. 

And she thought no more that night.


	3. Part Three

**ConneXions**  
_Part Three_

Under the pretense of adjusting her glove, Marie scanned the room from beneath lowered lashes once again. Still no sign of him, though in the seething mass of people, it was difficult to be sure. The Richmond's Ball, Jean had assured her, was the true beginning of the Season, and absolutely anyone who was even remotely anyone was there. Marie certainly believed it. The hall, which she had originally thought impossibly immense, was full of chatter and gaiety, bright gowns and feathers, handsome young bucks in the latest fashions. 

She sighed, and turned her attention back to the conversation taking place amongst her companions. Mrs Summers - no, Jean, she had insisted Marie call her that - was dressed in a most becoming blue, and Mr Summers looked so very dashing and handsome in his evening dress that Marie had, for one brief moment, been envious of her mother's friend. Sir Charles was present as well, had declared, indeed, that he would not for anything miss this grand event. The old man was looking more alert and pleased with the world than Marie had seen him since her arrival. 

Mr Summers had seen her adjusting her glove, apparently, for when she looked to him, he was smiling at her. "Do not be anxious about your appearance, Miss Rouge. You look beautiful." 

She blushed faintly. The compliment was delightful, but it was the formality - Miss Rouge, instead of Marie - that made her feel as if perhaps she belonged in this gathering. Yes, she was Miss Rouge, a young lady of fashion. 

"My goodness," Sir Charles said suddenly. "Who is that young lady talking with Colonel Fitzwilliam?" 

Marie looked along with the others, and although she did not know the Colonel, she had no trouble picking out the young lady in question. She was stunning. Not pretty, Marie thought, and she was not being spiteful in that discrimination. For with her smooth, cocoa-dark complexion this young lady would never be conventionally pretty. She was, however, exotically beautiful, especially wearing a pristine white gown in such a stark comparison. Heads turned almost without the knowledge of their owners to watch her as she stood conversing. She was speaking animatedly; her posture was good, her manners exemplary. 

"Ah yes," Jean said, her tone considering. "That must be Miss Ororo Munroe. Lady Highbury was telling me about her this Thursday past. It seems she has just arrived in London from Cairo, of all places. By all accounts she is considered one of the jewels of society there, and her loss has been much bemoaned. An orphan, she is reported to be, but rather call her an Heiress; Lady Highbury declares that her fortune is no less than thirty thousand pounds. She has no family to speak of - her father was apparently a speculator, of all things, and her mother declared an African princess. Still, with a fortune, and an education, which she apparently has had, and her very evident charms... well, at the very least she will be the talk of the Season." 

Marie suddenly felt almost dowdy in the pale yellow gown she had been so proud of at the beginning of the night. She smoothed her skirt self-consciously. Miss Munroe's glorious dark hair was dressed more elegantly than her own chestnut locks, Marie was certain, and her figure more pleasing. Marie had no fortune, less education surely, and her family was just as unsuitable and not as exciting. It did not matter to Marie that her rival was some few significant years older than her; here and now, Miss Rouge was the lesser creature, and it made all her insecurities resurface. 

A hand gripped hers. She looked up into Sir Charles' sparkling eyes, somewhat startled. "Do not be anxious, my dear," he said, quietly but reassuringly. "You are still one of the prettiest young ladies here, and have drawn some attention of your own." 

Looking in the direction he seemed to indicate, Marie caught a young man - not so fashionably dressed as some, perhaps - staring at her; he turned away quickly with a faint blush. Jean also looked, and sniffed a little dismissively. "Robert Drake. A nice enough young man, to be sure, Marie, but I think we can do a little better for you than that." She turned back to their companions just in time to see the much-discussed Miss Munroe being ushered towards them by an imposing lady of middle years. "Lady Highbury!" Jean declared. "How wonderful to see you! And how elegant your gown is. Such lace!" They embraced, and Lady Highbury stepped back and held out a hand to Miss Munroe. 

"My dear Mrs Summers, I simply couldn't have Miss Munroe miss out on meeting you. Mrs Summers is one of the most respected ladies in London, I told her, and you simply must make her acquaintance." 

Miss Munroe smiled - making her even more stunning - and curtsied. "She told me all that, Ma'am," she admitted, her voice ever so slightly accented. "And I could not be more pleased to meet you." 

"Nor I you," Jean replied with a warm smile and a curtsey of her own. "Please allow me to present my husband," Scott bowed in turn, all gentleman, "and my uncle, Sir Charles Xavier." The old man inclined his head from his chair, and Jean turned to Marie. "And this is my dear friend and guest, Miss Marie Rouge. This is her first Season." 

Marie blushed slightly as she curtsied to Miss Munroe. Must her relative inexperience be advertised so publicly? When she straightened, her rival was smiling at her so warmly that she could find no reason not to smile back. 

"A fellow novice! Oh, how reassured I am," the older of the two stated, and held out her hand. "Miss Rouge, please tell me we will be friends. I shall not be nearly so afraid of the many and varied horrors of London if I have a fellow adventurer by my side." 

Feeling quite taken aback, Marie clasped her new-found friend's hand. She hardly knew what to say. "I do not imagine I shall be of any great use to you, but I should be glad to name you a friend." And she found it was true; she certainly had no wish to be Miss Munroe's rival, for such a contest, she was sure, would be quickly and surely decided, and not in her own favour. 

Jean and Lady Highbury laughed, the former declaring: "There are no horrors of London, Miss Munroe, have you not heard? Only splendours and wonders." 

"That is not true," a new voice interrupted. "Much as I hate to speak against Mrs Summers, there are pitfalls and traps aplenty for the unwary and foolish. However, I am sure there are none such in the present company." And there was Captain Logan, resplendent in his full military regalia, silver buckles and red coat. Despite all this polish, however, there was still that air about him that was wildness unchecked. Marie felt her hand fall limp from Miss Munroe's, but she managed to refrain from gaping openly. 

"Captain Logan," Jean said, smiling brightly. "How good it is to see you again. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Highbury and Miss Munroe." Turning to the two ladies, she continued. "This wonderful gentleman performed a wonderful service for us, ensuring Miss Rouge's safety on her journey to London." A tactful glossing-over of the facts, and the ladies both smiled kindly upon the Captain, who bowed again, seeming a little disconcerted at the public praise. 

"I assure you," he said, "that it was no less than any other man of honour would have done." 

Marie found her voice, somehow, and said: "A service I am most grateful for nonetheless." 

He looked at her, and she drew a quick breath under that dark gaze. "Then perhaps I may claim the first dance," he said, as the music began, and the crowd began to move. He offered his arm. 

Marie thought she should break apart. Or at least wake up. "I would be delighted," she said, placing her hand upon his. With a final, brilliant smile to her companions, she allowed Logan to lead her to the floor. 

The Captain could not be said to be an excellent dancer, but he followed the steps with a sort of fluid grace Marie could place no other word to than 'animal'. It was as untamed as the rest of him, seeming a little out of place in the staid movements of the dance they participated in. Marie felt a blush colour her cheeks a little, as she was sure every eye in the room was on her partner and, by proxy, on herself. Her colour high, her confidence soaring, Miss Rouge in truth made a beautiful picture, and more than one young man was secretly smitten, turning to his neighbour to discover the name of this vision. 

Returning, flushed and happy upon the arm of Captain Logan, to her companions, Marie bestowed such smiles that her conquest over some of the young men was well and truly assured. The Summers party, with Miss Munroe still, but without Lady Highbury, were discussing that most common of subjects - France and its general. Marie felt a small loss as Logan released her arm, but noted with surprise that it was Miss Munroe who was holding forth vehemently. 

"I make no apologies for him," the young lady declared, apparently in reply to some remark of Scott's. "The man is a rogue, a deplorable villain, but he is also a genius, a man of daring and cunning. He is bold enough to attempt strategies only spoken of before, and he has the skill to bring them off. How else do you explain his victories, his masterful destruction of Austria and Prussia?" 

Mr Summers seemed quite taken aback, Sir Charles only marginally less so, and Jean was wide-eyed. Such views! They would never be expressed by an Englishman, and here they were in the mouth and mind of a young lady. It was unthinkable. Marie wondered about the education Miss Munroe had received, that it covered such matters as Napoleon, and strategy. 

"Miss Monroe, you are an uncommonly well-informed young lady." The compliment, and a bow, from Captain Logan, answered by a demure curtsey. "And I agree with you entirely. The Corsican, deplorable as he is in general, should be applauded for his genius in the particulars. He does what Frederick the Great aspired to." 

Mr Summers and his English aplomb were routed. Retreat was the only option, the opportunity provided in the beginning of the next dance. "Come, we are at a ball. Miss Rouge, would you do me the honour?" 

As they swept off towards the floor, Marie saw Logan offer his arm to Jean, with words she did not hear. The refusal in Jean's countenance was unmistakable, though, and Logan now turned to Miss Munroe, the pair soon following. 

Left alone with her uncle, Mrs Summers watched the dancers with a smile on her face. She enjoyed balls for the spectacle alone since she was, as she'd told Captain Logan, an old married woman with little inclination to dance. Occasionally she took to the floor on her husband's arm, but not too often. 

It was precisely because she was not dancing now that she was able to observe the late arrival of a party. They paused in the doorway to survey the room. There was a distinguished man of advanced years, plus two other, younger men, one tall, broad-shouldered and blond, the other shorter and dark. The latter leaned to whisper something into the ear of the only woman in the party, who was sleek and darkly pretty, clutching to the arm of the tall blond man. Whatever her companion whispered must have amused her, for she laughed, one small hand covering her mouth. 

"Erik!" Charles gasped, and when Jean turned to him he was quite pale. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and responded to his niece's unspoken question. "Mr Erik Lehnsherr. We were acquaintances, friends even, once. But that was years ago. I do not know who his companions are, but I believe we will soon enough. They are coming this way." 

So they were, and Jean smoothed her dress, noting that the small, dark woman's gown was the height of fashion, straight from Paris, without a doubt. The two sides bowed to each other, a moment of solemn, silent courtesy, broken by the man Charles had named Erik, even taller and more imposing at close quarters. 

"Charles - Sir Charles, I understand it is now - it has been too long. It is my great pleasure to see you again after all these years." His English was entirely unaccented, and his manner entirely gentlemanly. 

"As it is mine to see you," Charles returned. "May I present my niece, Mrs Jean Summers." 

Erik turned to her and bowed low, and she could not help but feeling flattered. "Charmed, Mrs Summers. And may I in turn present my companions. This young man," the taller blond, "is my dear friend and adopted heir, Mr Victor Creed. The lady is his wife, Mrs Raven Creed. And the other gentleman is another friend of ours, Mr Mortimer Toynbee." 

"What a delight to meet the most elegant Mrs Summers." The speaker was Mrs Creed, her voice all smooth confidence. She smiled. "Why, even in Paris we have heard word of the most respectable couple in London." 

Jean was struck by the woman's phenomenal poise; she felt almost gawky beside her. "You are too kind," she murmured. 

"Not at all," the other woman said smoothly. "But you know, amidst all this noise and bustle is hardly the place for forming new acquaintances, and certainly not for renewing old friendships." She smiled to Charles. 

"In that case," Jean began, "perhaps you would dine with us? Such an atmosphere would be much more conducive to pleasant conversation, surely. Perhaps a week hence?" She was not sure she liked the supremely confident Mrs Creed, or the taciturn disposition of her husband, or the way Mr Toynbee was looking at her. But one dinner, surely no harm could come of that. 

Mrs Creed clapped her hands. "Oh yes, what a delightful idea." 

Mr Lehnsherr also smiled, and inclined his head. "Thank you kindly for your invitation, Mrs Summers. We would be delighted to attend. With that future date set, we will take our leave, and allow you to return to your evening. Until next week." A further round of bows, and the group moved off as the music wound to a close. 

"Dinner no less," Charles muttered once they were beyond earshot. "An evening with that insufferable man and his cronies. Was that entirely necessary?" 

Jean looked to her uncle. "I thought he was your friend." The look on his face answered her louder than any words. "Well, it is only one evening, and we are rid of them for tonight at least." She looks up, to where the dancers are returning, Marie and Ororo speaking together animatedly, Logan and Scott not saying a word. "I shall invite Miss Munroe and Captain Logan as well. At least then we will be a party." 

The dinner invitations duly dispatched and accepted, the cloud that had been briefly cast by the other party cleared. Robert Drake, who Jean had so dismissed, summoned the courage to invite Marie to dance, and then another young man, and the evening passed in a delightful whirl. Until, very late that night, the Summers party climbed into their carriage, and went home. 

Marie was far too excited to be weary, despite the hour, and she talked all the way home, her eyes bright. She talked of her partners, of Captain Logan in particular, of how pleasant Miss Monroe was, of the wonderful time she had and how she could barely wait for the next ball. She did not stop talking until Mrs Summers laid a finger on her lips in her doorway, and bid her a smiling good night. 

Falling into bed, Marie knew that she had been correct. London was a fairyland, and she had found a prince. His charcoal gaze winged her to her rest.


	4. Part Four

**ConneXions**  
_Part Four_

Raven relaxed in the carriage, one gloved finger tapping against her smirk. 

"You have a mischievous look about you." It was Mortimer, her husband's oldest friend, and frequently her partner in myriad schemes. He would be with her in this one, she knew, as he smiled at her across the rocking carriage. Victor was wonderful, and her husband, but he didn't know how to play like Mortimer did. 

"I was thinking about those with whom we are shortly to dine," she told him. "They seem like such... nice people." 

Mortimer crossed his arms across his chest and merely looked at her, his smile amused and mischievous. "Oh, they are. Pillars of respectability, and the young one - Miss Rouge. She is the picture of innocence, is she not?" 

"Oh yes," Raven agreed, and she knew that he thought as she did now from the sparkle in his eye. "They are simply so perfect." She turned to look out the window, one finger tapping again at her smirk, and added so very quietly: "We will have to do something about that." 

* * * * *

Marie sighed, and tried to pull her attention back to the light conversation at her end of the table. It was futile, however. No matter how many times she dragged her gaze back to her turtle soup, she invariably found it returning to the other end of the table. It was difficult to listen to the pleasantries Mrs Creed was exchanging with Sir Charles at the head of the table when the faint sound of Jean's laughter from the foot told Marie her hostess was definitely enjoying Captain Logan's company. She would look up at every murmur, and see Logan speaking quietly to Jean, or to Miss Munroe, and both looked amused, smiling. Marie wanted more than anything to be seated next to Captain Logan, but when they had come into dinner, she had been placed here, between Mr Toynbee and Mr Creed, and across from Scott. 

Everything had been going so well before dinner. Captain Logan had arrived first, and the conversation had been light, until the bell rang to announce their main guests. Jean and Scott had risen to greet them, which had left her alone with Logan to witness his reaction to the entry of Mr Lehnsherr and his friends. It had been Mr Creed who inspired Logan's quick intake of breath, Marie was certain. When she had asked after the cause of his distress, he had attempted to dismiss it quickly, but after only a little pressing had admitted to knowing Mr Creed previously, in much less felicitous circumstances. He would indulge her no further, however, and declined to make any of it known. He would not cause a disturbance in Mrs Grey's sitting room, he declared. 

Marie liked having a secret of Logan's. It fit snug and warm in her head and made her smile. She noticed that Mr Creed, on her left, had been ignoring Logan as surely as Logan had been ignoring him. Then again, Creed spoke little enough to anyone, and only when directly addressed. He barely looked up from his meal, and his taciturn silence cast a small pall over the table. 

His companions were perfectly at ease and talkative, though. Mrs Creed was bright and sparkling, dividing her time between Sir Charles on her left and Scott on her right. Mr Lehnsherr, between Creed and Jean, spoke with a little reserve and a great deal of dignity. Mr Toynbee was all smooth charm and quick wit, making Mrs Creed laugh and bringing a smile to Sir Charles' face. 

As if her thoughts had summoned his attention, Marie suddenly found herself under Mr Toynbee's gaze. "You sigh far too frequently for such a young person," he declared, quietly and with a small twist of his mouth that spoke volumes of friendly amusement. "You should be full of gaiety and joy." 

Marie smiled, liking his easy manners. "Sir, I assure you I am quite gay and joyful under most circumstances." 

"Ah." Still with that teasing smile, he looked up to the other end of the table, then leaned a little closer to her. "Then perhaps there is someone rendering these circumstances unusual?" 

Marie glanced around quickly. Scott was attempting to engage Mr Creed in conversation, and Mrs Creed and Sir Charles were having an animated discussion regarding the virtues of various operas, something they both seemed to be particularly passionate about. No one was paying attention to her conversation with Mr Toynbee. "I am sure I don't know what you mean." But there was a blush creeping up her neck to give the lie to her words. She looked down to her soup, and hope he wouldn't notice. 

No such luck. He laughed quietly. "I am sure you do. Love should be a matter of joy and smiles, Miss Rouge. Such a shame. You blush so prettily." 

Which, of course, made her blush more, and when she regained her countenance, he had joined the conversation with Mrs Creed and Charles. Marie listened politely, as did Scott, she noticed, who had ceased his useless efforts to draw Mr Creed out. 

"Well then, we must certainly all go together some time," Mrs Creed was declaring with delight. "And we must invite Captain Logan. He seems to enjoy the company so much." 

All heads turned to the other end of the table, where Logan was smiling at Jean, who was laughing with her hand over her mouth. Yes, he did appear to be enjoying the company, Marie thought with a strange twist in her stomach. And Jean seemed to be enjoying it as well. She looked across the table, but Scott had already turned back to Mrs Creed, his face its usual polite mask. Marie's eyes drifted back to the end of the table, and suspicion grew in her. Why had Logan been seated, not next to her, but next to Jean? 

Marie suddenly felt angry, and looked down to her plate to hide her shift in emotion. No, but surely Jean would not do such a thing. 

Would she? 

Marie ate little and said less for the remainder of the meal, as course followed course and the conversation at her end of the table flowed through various topics, until, inevitably, it came to rest on that most contentious of figures, Napoleon. And from him, to the events of Paris, some forty years previously, that they were calling the Revolution. 

With that topic, the conversation suddenly gained an unhappy amount of vigour, as Marie was stunned to see Sir Charles deploring the bloodshed and events with a passion she had not known he possessed. Even more surprisingly was the heated response of Mr Lehnsherr, almost a declaration of support for the revolution, and for a moment it seemed as if matters would prove the end of the party, so personal and accusatory did the comments become. 

However, Mrs Summers could not condone such a thing in her dining room, and moved swiftly to calm both her uncle and her guest. Mrs Creed, following her lead, did similarly, and soon the old men returned to their meals in disgruntled silence, paying not one whit of attention to the other for the remainder of the meal. 

That uneasy silence pervaded until the ladies adjourned, leaving the men to their brandy. It was a subdued group that entered the warmly lit drawing room. Marie turned quickly away from Jean and went to sit by the fire, taking a book from a nearby shelf and immersing herself in the pages. Her plan for solitude was ruined, however, when Mrs Creed took Miss Munroe to the piano, entreating her to play, for she had heard so much about the girl's talent. Jean, left alone, came over to Marie, a concerned look on her face. 

"My dear, you seem out of spirits tonight, are you quite well?" 

Marie twitched away from the outstretched hand. "I am quite well," she answered stiffly. "And perhaps only out of spirits compared to those with so many reasons for gaiety." A glance at Jean showed her confusion, and Marie added: "Captain Logan is a delightful man, is he not? Of course, I would not know, having not been seated next to him." 

Jean folded her hands in her lap. The look she directed at Marie was almost stern. "Yes, the Captain is quite delightful. However, he is merely a captain, Marie, and his family and fortune are entirely unknown. A match between you would not be prudent." 

"What do you expect of me, Jean?" Marie asked, closing her book with a snap, but her voice still quiet enough under the music of the piano. "I will never catch a true gentleman as a husband; my experiences in Bath have assured me of that. He is a decent man, of a decent standing and decent fortune. Perhaps you have other motives for your disapproval. After all, he is 'quite delightful', isn't he?" 

Her anger delivered, Marie turned away from Jean, opening the book once more. She held the pages before her eyes until she heard the other woman stand and leave, but she could not make sense of a single word. 

At the completion of the song, the piano halted, and there came the sounds of conversation from the piano, Mrs Creed and Miss Munroe and Jean, in muted tones. But Marie did not put down her book until the drawing room door opened and the men entered. 

Sir Charles entered first, face as stern as that of Scott, who pushed his chair. And behind them Mr Lehnsherr and his companions, subdued and almost stone-faced, and last Captain Logan, as cheerful as the rest. Sir Charles was settled in his favourite spot near the fire, and Jean came hurrying over to Scott. 

Marie fled away, over to the piano, where the others had gathered. Mrs Creed was praising the talent of Miss Munroe, and under the combined requests of the rest of the party, who were beginning to return to spirits in mixed company, the dark beauty was persuaded to play some more. 

Seats were taken around the room, and small conversation attempted. Luckily, perhaps, the music prevented any serious discussion. When Miss Munroe quit the piano, protesting her fatigue, Marie took her place, to play and sing. She was moderately talented at both pursuits, and enjoyed them a great deal. Though tonight her pleasure was sadly diminished at seeing, over the piano, Jean engaged in coversation with Captain Logan and Miss Munroe once again. As if she could sense Marie's gaze, Jean looked up, and colouring a little, took her leave and went to stand with Scott. They conversed little though, Marie noticed, and Scott looked particularly stern. Perhaps she had not been the only one to note events tonight. 

She finished a song she had hardly heeded as she performed it, only to find Mrs Creed at her elbow, smiling pleasantly. 

"That was so beautiful," the older woman complimented Marie. "Indeed, Mortimer was just agreeing with me that it was by far the most delicate performance we have heard of that particular air in a long time. Would you do us the honour of performing it again?" And as Marie blushed and answered that she certainly would, Mrs Creed laid her hand on her shoulder, and leaned closer to whisper: "Your talents have certainly had quite an effect on the Marquis." 

Marie blushed all the more, and was quite flustered for a moment. A Marquis? She could only mean Mr Toynbee. A quick glance towards where the man in question sat in idle conversation with Mr Lehnsherr revealed that he was looking her way, and she ducked her head. A Marquis, of all things. He must not know of her father's occupation, and think her a gentleman's daughter. "I am flattered that he would pay such a compliment to one as humble as I," Marie said quietly, and turned back to the piano, beginning to play once again to cover her confusion. A Marquis; and she stole another small look towards Mr Toynbee. 

The evening passed slowly, strained, until eventually it was completed and carriages were called. Scott and Jean, with Sir Charles, stood in the hall, bidding farewell to their guests. With her smooth politeness, Mrs Creed extracted a grudging acceptance of a resumption of festivities in a week; a trip to the opera that she and Sir Charles had conversed so pleasantly about, with, of course, the inclusion of Captain Logan and Miss Munroe to make the party complete. 

Sir Charles was tired, and was taken away to bed at once by his nurse immediately. Marie fled upstairs, pausing at the top to look down into the hall, concealed by the shadows. Jean turned to Scott, whose demeanour did not soften as he looked towards her. 

"That was... less than pleasant," Jean commented stiffly. 

Scott nodded. "The atmosphere over brandy was tense," he admitted. 

Jean shook her head, holding one hand to her temple. "I don't like them. Captain Logan mentioned something about Mr Creed, some hint of past misdeeds. He would say no more, as a gentleman, but I think it would be best if we did not go next week. Surely we could find a reason for refusing the engagement." 

Marie noted Scott's slight stiffening at the mention of Logan's confiding, recognised it as a mirror of her own. That had been her secret, her part of the Captain to keep for her own. And he had shared it with others. She stamped down on the betrayal welling inside her as Scott said curtly: "I should have thought you would have been glad of another opportunity to see the good Captain." 

He stalked up the stairs, and Marie fled into her own room. And so, sullenly and individually, the household of Greymalkin House went to bed.


	5. Part Five

**ConneXions**  
_Part Five_

'Dear Miss Rouge, 

'I had thought to contain myself, to act with propriety and decorum, however I discover now that such is impossible - nay, abhorrent - at present. I can no more prevent myself from writing this letter than I can hold back the turning tide.' 

Marie had read no further at the breakfast table, folding the pages with her countenance outwardly undisturbed, though inside her confusion knew no bounds. She had not even looked at the last page, to that final line that would tell her who was writing such an unstoppable letter, and consequently she had had little of consequence to say at breakfast, her thoughts all aflutter as they skipped between thoughts of first one, then the other, possible suitor. That had not mattered, however, as breakfast had been a silent, divided affair, with none of the participants showing any joy in the meal. 

Now, however, tucked away in a secluded corner of the gardens of Greymalkin House, she unfolded the letter to continue her perusal with a fluttering heart. 

'I should not wish to restrain my feelings in any event,' the letter continued. 'They are everything natural and right. And so I must be allowed to convey my ardent admiration, an admiration which has been building since the first moment I beheld you. You were an angel, it seemed, everything good and pure, lighting up the ballroom. I was incapable of seeing any other.' 

Marie felt her lips curve into a satisfied smile. The ballroom. It was Mr Toynbee, then. And she felt a surge of almost exultation. A Marquis, and in love with her. But then a pause, a realisation. He did now know about her family. She read on. 

'Our evening together two nights past was an exercise in delight. With every moment I was convinced further that you were the most perfect creature placed upon God's earth. I had not intended Mrs Creed to convey my interest as she did. However, I am glad now that she did, that I might with this letter sooth your fears. 

'My dearest Marie, if I may be so bold, it would not matter to me were your father the meanest man in the country, of no name or fortune. You are all the fortune I desire, and more than I am worthy of. 

'But now I am being far too bold, with no indication of whether my attentions are desired or detested. Should I receive no reply, I shall assume the latter is the case, and remove myself from your company forever, for to be so near, and yet denied, would be the worst of torture. 

'However, I hope, I pray, that I will receive an answer, and that I may continue to be, 

'Yours faithfully, 

'Mortimer Toynbee' 

The turmoil that filled Marie's heart can be imagined. In agitation, she stood from her bench and set off across the lawn, full of energy. She first folded the letter, then unfolded it again and paused to reread a section, then began once more to walk. She turned here and there, not quite seeing where she went. Could it really be so? No, surely not. He was so charming, so elegant, so intelligent and witty, and a Marquis above all. He did not truly know about her father. He believed him merely a minor gentleman, beneath his station. Not a banker. When he knew the truth he would flee her, just as Mr Randall had. 

But oh, could she not hope? Just for a little while? 

Further consideration was cut short, however, by the interruption of Miss Munroe, in high spirits and begging Marie to come for a walk in the park, it was such a lovely day. Trying to calm herself, Marie smiled, and accepted. 

Scott and Jean came as well, walking sedately and silently together, and leaving Marie and Ororo to walk arm in arm, in the manner of young women who have formed a particular acquaintance. Miss Munroe spoke sparingly, and Marie hardly at all for thinking of the letter she had received. When the party met up with Captain Logan, Marie was pleased, but not for the reasons she would have been formerly. Now, at Logan's appearance, Scott and Jean stepped forward in a lively manner, soon pulling ahead. Marie, however, walked slowly, and eventually stopped altogether, pleading an entirely fictitious broken lace, and begging the other two to continue. 

Now paused on the path, Marie had time to think. But that was taken from her by the sudden appearance of he who chiefly occupied her thoughts. Mr Toynbee arrived from around a turn in the path, appearing even more handsome and elegant to her eyes that he had previously. She held out her hand to greet him, and smiled, and wished that perhaps her fairytale might come true after all. 

He bent over her hand, and looked up at her, his eyes warm. "Then may I dare to hope that I need not absent myself from your side?" 

Marie took a deep breath, but could not manage the will to extract her hand. She had to tell him, though. "Sir, I am most acutely conscious of the compliment you pay me with your attentions, however I cannot allow you to be under a misapprehension any longer. It would be most uncharitable of me. My father, whose station you so swiftly dismissed in your letter, is not a gentleman. He is a banker, sir, and no more." 

Toynbee also did not release her hand, but straightened and stepped a little closer, a smile on his face, even after that awful fact was communicated. "For all the information you take pains to give me regarding your father, anyone would think it was he I was in love with. But even should I care to, I imagine I would have immense difficulty marrying your father." 

This statement set off such a flutter in Marie's heart as was fit to render her almost insensible. She smiled, and laughed, and was entirely caught up in such delight as only youthful innocence can produce. She strove to quickly calm her agitation, however, knowing that soon her friends would begin to worry about her. In her present state of happiness, she wished to cause no pain to any. Even Jean was completely forgiven in her heart now, and Logan's misdemeanour in sharing their secret forgotten. And so she took her leave of Toynbee she hardly knew how, but with many flatteries and blushes and smiles, and walked with a gaiety formerly lacking to meet her friends, who all remarked that the fresh air had certainly done wonders for her this morning. 

It was in such a rapture that she passed the remaining days before the intended visit to the opera, when she could once again see Mr Toynbee. She would hear no notion of avoiding the engagement, and protested that she was so looking forward to the outing. 

So it was that the party once again gathered, this time in an opera box belonging to Mr Lehnsherr, but most definitely ruled by Mrs Creed with a tyranny perpetuated by her charm and smiles. The ladies were seated, the men standing behind them. Scott seemed to be almost guarding Jean, from the sternness of his countenance, and Toynbee smoothly took the place behind Marie's chair, in such a subtle way that none marked it but the lady herself, who exulted in the action. Mr Creed, of course, stood silently behind his wife, and Captain Logan was left to the place behind the chair of Miss Munroe. 

Marie enjoyed the opera thoroughly, though she could not have rightly given a precise recounting of the events that transpired on stage. She remembered clearly, however, every word, no matter how inconsequential, that passed between herself and Toynbee, and even more clearly how delightful he was, how charming, how elegant, how flattering. 

Her heart was almost fit to burst when, as the final curtain fell, he leaned forward to speak quietly in her ear: "I have something most particular to ask you, Miss Rouge, when the moment presents itself." 

A proposal! It must be. She knew it. And joy rendered her sparkling, and very beautiful, in the light chatter that followed the performance. So obvious was her luminescence, that Mrs Creed remarked that the opera had certainly thrilled her, and she would have to be invited again. Marie smiled, and blushed, which of course only made her more pretty. 

The invitation to supper was extended to the Summers' party, and Marie was sure this would provide just the necessary opportunity. However, Jean politely declined, claiming the night was too late, and Sir Charles too tired, and they must return home. Oh, how angry Marie was. How she hated Jean in that moment as she regretfully took her leave of Mr Toynbee. 

His cool hand on hers, his glittering eyes, the warmth of his voice, all troubled her dreams and her sleep, but she nevertheless awoke feeling refreshed, and was in positively high spirits at the breakfast table. Spirits which only improved when the morning mail was brought in, and included a letter for herself, addressed in a hand which she recognised instantly as being the match of that which had penned the much-perused letter now in a prominent place in her jewelry box. 

As soon as possible, Marie escaped the dining room and fled to her seat in the garden, where, hidden from the world, she eagerly opened her letter. It can be imagined how feverishly she devoured the contents. For the sake of her privacy, the letter will not be reproduced here, for it was full of intimacy and tenderness, meant for her eyes and no others. It did have another purpose, however, beyond the communication of such pleasantries, and that was the paragraph which made Marie's heart beat the fastest. 

'You must be entirely aware of my intentions,' the section in question read. 'I wish you to be my wife. Every minute that passes to delay that happy occurrance is abhorrent to me. I would marry you today if I could. Failing that, Marie my dearest, could you - would you - meet me this evening in the park, and we shall away to Scotland, and our waiting will be over.' 

An elopement! How romantic, how thrilling, what a deliciously wonderful secret! Marie hugged the letter to her and laughed out loud. Yes, she would meet him. She, who David Randall had spurned, would marry a Marquis. Her fairytale was perfect.


	6. Part Six

**ConneXions**  
_Part Six_

Scott Summers sat in his study, a forgotten ledger of the household accounts on the table in front of him. Instead, he stared out the window, into nothing but darkness. His fingers toyed with the stem of the half-full glass on the table. His thoughts turned in circles, worrying at the matter that had led to his discarding of the accounts ledger, to his fleeing the drawing room an hour or two previously, when he could bear it no longer. The matter of Captain Logan.

But a month earlier, he had been perfectly comfortable in his situation, certain of his affection and love for his most beautiful wife, and of hers for him. Now, with the appearance of one man alone, he was uncertain; jealousy had wrapped itself around his heart, its squeezing unbearably painful.

With terrible clarity he remembered Mrs Creed at their dinner, looking towards the foot of the table and remarking on Logan's enjoyment of the company. And Jean, laughing, happy, flushed, looking to the Captain with such a light in her eyes.

His hand tightened on the stem of the glass, but then another thought occurred to him, and he reviewed the moment in his head. Yes, Logan had, the very next instant, in fact, turned back to Miss Munroe. Miss Munroe, with whom he had, in fact, danced at the Richmond's Ball. With whom he had walked in the park so long. With whom he had spoken a great deal at the opera.

All while Scott's wife, his darling Jean, had stayed on his arm, and looked at him with such distress as he was cold and distant to her. And on what grounds? The word of a woman who he was not sure at all he trusted, so slick and charming and sure. It was Captain Logan's perceived interest that had him so troubled, he was sure, and if the Captain was in fact enamoured of-

His thoughts were brought to a halt as a piercing scream rang through the house. He was out of his seat in a minute, and into the hallway. Taking the stairs in unseemly haste, he met his wife in the upper hallway, distraught to the point of hysteria, with such weeping and wailing as rendered her highly unintelligible. He drew her to him, holding her close, feeling all at once the overwhelming flood of his love for her. As she clutched to his shoulders, a crumpled paper in one hand, she began to calm a little, enough to be able to speak.

"Oh Scott!" she gasped finally. "It is Marie; she is ruined!" She thrust the paper at him. Scott smoothed the paper enough to read its damning contents; it was, as may be suspected, Toynbee's last letter to Marie, entreating her to elope. He gasped as he read the last line, and his wife continued: "She is not in her room, Scott. She has gone to meet him! Who knows how long she has been gone. They could be anywhere! Anything could have happened to her!"

"I knew it," Scott declared, drawing his distraught wife close once more. "Those people are nothing but trouble. We should never have trusted any of them." He looked down into her face, beautiful even while tear-stained. "Don't worry, my darling." She blinked at the endearment, a tiny light of hope entering her eyes. He smoothed a hand over her cheek. "Don't worry. I will go after them. I will bring her back. Fetch my pistols."

He was only two steps down the stairs when she called him, and he turned to look at her. "Don't go alone. Take Captain Logan with you, please?"

Doubt cramped his heart once more, but she continued, stepping up to the head of the stairs. "Please Scott," she said. "I would die if something happened to you."

All his worries vanished, and he was cradling her in his arms in an instant, holding her close with a fervour unfelt in the past week, a fervour entirely present as he whispered in her ear: "I love you."

There was business at hand, however. A messenger was speedily dispatched to Captain Logan, and Scott's pistols fetched. In barely more than half an hour, there came the clatter of horses hooves into the courtyard of Greymalkin House and Scott hurried out the door, Jean behind him.

They were most surprised to see not one mounted rider, but two. The Captain appeared as grim as an executioner on his spirited black horse, but beside him, well seated on a delicate grey steed, was Miss Munroe, looking quite as determined as her companion.

Logan tipped his hat to the Summers', and noticed the direction of their gazes. "Miss Munroe was at dinner with me when your message arrived," he explained succinctly. "She insisted on accompanying me, no matter how I tried to impress upon her the possible danger."

"I am quite capable of looking after myself," Miss Munroe spoke up then, and from the primness of her tone, and the stiffness of her posture, it seemed certain to be the truth. She was entirely composed. "In any case, when all is said and done, Marie will need the company of a lady."

Neither Scott nor Jean could fault her reasoning. As soon as Scott was mounted, the party set forth, leaving Jean staring after them from the steps of the house. In truth, staring after one alone, and Scott felt his certainty returning in all its vigour. The night would be a success, he was sure.

* * * * *

Marie had been increasingly uncertain as she had approached the park, carrying a small bag and bundled up in her cloak. What if she missed him in the dark? What if he had not come? But all her concerns vanished as she rounded the last corner to see his carriage waiting by the edge of the park, and Toynbee himself waiting under the light of one of the flickering streetlights.

She hurried towards him, and as he saw her, he came towards her a few steps. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to drop her bag as she reached him, and to clasp her arms around his neck even as his came around her waist, spinning her around and off her feet. No sooner were her feet back on the ground than he bent forward and his lips touched hers.

A moment of panic, and then she realised that it was all right. As soon as they reached Scotland, they would be man and wife, and surely he could kiss her. So he did, and when he finally released her, Marie found she had to keep hold of his shoulders, for somehow she had become quite dizzy for a moment.

Toynbee laughed lightly as she raised a hand to her forehead, and he bent to pick up her bag with one hand, keeping the other around her waist. "I was terrified you would not come," he said quietly. "How overjoyed I was to see you. Come, we should be away as soon as possible."

She let him usher her towards the coach, and with his help stepped up inside it. He followed her inside, sitting beside her. But instead of giving the order to drive on, he turned to her, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

"My darling, you are so beautiful," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her again. He seemed more insistant this time, and she was quite dizzy and breathless when his lips left hers. This kissing this was very nice, she had to admit, but still...

"Shouldn't we be going?" she asked. "To Scotland?"

But his arms came around her tightly, pulling her to him. "Damn Scotland," he said, his voice rough, and then he was kissing her again, very hard this time, and his hands moved on her.

This was not right, Marie was sure of it, and panic welled up inside her. She pushed at him, but he was so much stronger than she, and hardly seemed to notice. Her fairytale was all crumbled to dust, a heap of lies. She felt tears begin behind her eyelids, shut tight against this horrible event.

Suddenly, from outside there came a voice shouting: "Hold the coach!" and then the door was flung open, lighting spilling into the carriage. Blessedly, Toynbee left her, jumping away as far as the close confines allowed. Marie looked up to see Mr Summers, her saviour, standing outisde the carriage, one pistol aimed at Toynbee. "Unhand her, or by George, sir, you'll regret it."

"She wants to come with me," Toynbee declared, appearing not at all handsome to Marie now. She waited not another moment, and leapt forward, past Toynbee, to fall out of the carriage.

Scott almost cursed as Marie came tumbling out of the carriage, and dropped his pistols in his haste to catch her. He went staggering back a pace or two, Marie sobbing incoherently in his arms. He looked up just in time to see Toynbee leaping down from the carriage himself, fist raised and eyes ablaze with the intent to cause Scott serious damage with it.

He had no chance, though, as suddenly Captain Logan leapt in from the side, catching the intended blow on his arm and throwing one of his own. The fight was short and nasty, and ended with Logan staggering back from a solid blow to his chin. Grinning unpleasantly, Toynbee quickly drew a pistol from underneath his coat, and took aim. There came a shot.

And Toynbee went sprawling back into the carriage, his pistol dropping in the ground at his feet as he clutched at his right shoulder, cursing horribly. Logan darted in to scoop up the weapon, as Scott looked around to see Miss Munroe, still on her horse, lowering her smoking pistol. Her countenance was untroubled, and her hand steady.

Logan came up to Scott's shoulder, looking up at the beauty on the horse with a smile. "That's my girl," he said quietly, but proudly. The smile she returned to him was dazzling.

* * * * *

Marie sat quietly in the drawing room, contemplating the fire, and the events of the past three months. The Season was over, but by the company gathered in the ballroom across the hall, one would never have guessed it. The wedding breakfast the Summers had hosted for Captain and Mrs Ororo Logan boasted a guestlist truly prodigious in its size.

There were some notable exceptions, though. Mr Lehnsherr and his party were certainly not invited, though this was not conspicuous at all, since the party were now some two months gone from London. Not entirely voluntarily. A visit had been paid, and an interview demanded the morning after the prevented elopement. It still made Marie blush to think on how easily taken in she had been that night. In the interview, Sir Charles had declared in no uncertain terms that unless they left the country immediately, Mortimer's actions would be made known to the police, and damn the scandal it would cause. Moreover, and this, Marie thought, it had pained the dear old gentleman to say, Charles himself would make public the details of Mr Lehnsherr's past actions during the Revolution. What those actions were, Marie did not know. No more had been said on the matter, and the entire party had been gone within the week.

The scandal had been considerable in any case, and the gossips had speculated wildly over the precise events of that night, for no particulars were known. But Marie had the complete support of the Summers, that most respectable of London couples, and the gossip died down quickly enough, other scandals arising to take its place. And those who whispered that there had been trouble in the Summers' marriage? Well, they were hushed more quickly than any other, and such notions dismissed as entirely unthinkable.

At that moment Marie's thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the appearance of a strange young man.

"Oh, I do apologise," he said as he saw her sitting there, his accent ever-so-slightly French; he had had a good English instructor. "I was looking for a quiet corner, but I did not know there was anyone in here. I am sorry to have disturbed you."

"Not at all," Marie replied as he turned to go. "I was doing the same thing myself. Please join me." He was handsome, she noted as he came over to where she was seated. "I am Marie Rouge," she said, holding out her hand.

He bowed over her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rouge," he said, smiling. Pleasing manners as well, she noted, but he seemed so much more wholesome than Toynbee ever had. "I am Remy LeBeau. I see now why my dear friend Miss Munroe - oh no, I must now say Mrs Logan, yes? - has been declaring her darling friend Miss Rouge is the most delightful creature in London."

Marie blushed a little at the compliment, and hurriedly said: "You are a friend of Mrs Logan's? How wonderful."

"Yes, it is," Mr LeBeau agreed warmly, "for now I have had the chance to meet you. Ororo will be delighted that we have met, I am sure. Shall we go and find her?" He offered his arm.

Smiling, she stood and slipped her arm through his. "That is an excellent idea," she said.

"Your name, Miss Rouge," he said as they crossed the room. "It is French, but unless I miss my guess, you yourself are not."

"I am not," she conceded. "My father married an Englishwoman and settled here."

He looked directly at her, his hand on the door handle. "What a marvellous notion. I believe I shall have to follow his example."


End file.
